


Vaca

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s under the stars, Spock’s in a tent, and they compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vaca

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1cobaltDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1cobaltDream/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for tomorrowsdate’s “Spirk Vacation Time” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Firelight is an inconsistent source, but Jim wanted this trip to be _“authentic”_ , so the little glass-enclosed candle is all Spock has to see by. It hangs in the rickety lantern from the pole in the ceiling, which, to Spock, seems like a disaster waiting to happen. The tent is entirely too flammable, and all it’ll take is one stray kick of Jim’s uncontrollable body and the whole flimsy structure could come toppling down around them. 

It should, therefore, ease his mind to have Jim gone. It gives him time to read the engrossing article he received en route to their R and R destination free of distraction. Composed by five different Andorian scientists, the essay outlines a startling number of biological connections between tribbles and the Horta. Given Spock’s, albeit questionable, contact with both species, he finds the parallels _fascinating_.

Jim would probably think so too, if he had a moment aside to read it. But instead, to Spock’s unpredicted displeasure, he chose to go swimming. Again. And it’s given Spock the opportunity to make headway on his reading and notes, but it’s also left him without his t’hy’la at his side: something he’s apparently taken for granted on the bridge of their starship. He assumed they would conduct their vacation together—after his usual dismissals and Jim’s pleas and Dr. McCoy’s infamous “doctor’s orders”—and they have, though not quite in the same manner. Being alone on the dark little alien beach in a strange human concoction is somewhat disconcerting. 

It’s not so much an emotion as a justified response. These quarters are too tiny for a man of Spock’s stature, he’s in an entirely unknown environment, and his reading is only made possible by a potential fire hazard. Meanwhile, his captain might be drowning, for all he knows. Well, no. He would know. And he’d come rushing out. But it’s still irksome—still dallying on a new world without security officers to watch Jim when Spock can’t. The more Spock thinks on it, the less his padd interests him, until he’s just staring blankly at the screen and debating whether or not to hunt Jim down. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, the tent flap stirs. It doesn’t quite surprise Spock; he sensed the brush through their bond at the proximity. Jim’s grinning beautifully, dripping wet from head to toe, his honey hair turned chestnut by the water. His gold swim trunks cling to his thighs, outlining perfectly the contours of his body, and Spock has to will himself to look away. Even in private, staring isn’t prudent. 

Jim’s breathing hard. He probably ran up the beach, and he trails sand over the rubbery floor of the tent as he climbs inside. Plopping down on the sleeping bag by Spock’s knees, he reaches for one of the folded towels in the corner and starts to dry off his broad shoulders and hair, shaking it like a soggy sehlat to chase out all the spare drops. Small splashes land on Spock, but he moves the padd away in time to avoid any damage. When Jim’s head pokes out from beneath the towel, he beckons, “You should come for a swim now.” Apparently, the last three, interspersed with trips to the concessions stands and lying on the hot sand, weren’t good enough for him. 

Spock says simply, “It is late.” Far, far too late to swim in what must now be black waters. But Jim waves a nonchalant hand. 

“It’s still warm out, and the lake’s perfectly safe. You ran the scans yourself, and the locals use it all the time. Federation stamp of approval and everything.” After a final, vigorous rub, Jim drops the rumpled towel in his lap and says with his coy captain’s look, “Spock, this is a premium vacation planet, and under Bones’ very serious command we are ordered to enjoy R and R.”

Which only makes Spock wonder aloud: “I am aware this is a premium vacation planet, which does give me pause as to why we are on the beach instead of availing ourselves of one of the premium housing accommodations offered us upon arrival.”

Jim just laughs. It’s a pleasant sound that fills the tent, and Spock understands; he already knew the answer. They’re camping because Jim has such a strong affection for camping, and Spock has a weakness for appeasing Jim’s desires. The sparkle in Jim’s eyes says that he sees Spock’s understanding, and he puts one hand on Spock’s knees to lean over them, pressing his lips against the corner of Spock’s mouth. The kiss is small and chaste: only an invitation to more. But at the same time, Jim’s fingers brush over Spock’s, still moist and deliciously hot. Spock can feel Jim’s rapid pulse beneath the skin. It almost makes him tremble, makes a flush ghost into his cheeks, and he turns away to close his eyes. As usual, Jim, with such simple gestures, has managed to stir the dark longing in Spock that should only surface for _pon farr_.

Instead, he hungers for flesh every time Jim touches him, and in the absence of their crew to watch, Jim intertwines their fingers in a sultry, sinful dance. Spock allows the padd to be lowered to the ground, left aside and forgotten. He looks at Jim’s clouded hazel eyes and wonders how he could ever bother with the inner workings of tribbles and Horta when he has a creature this beautiful before him. 

Jim leans closer over the distance, broad shoulders blanketing Spock’s long but curled-in body. Jim’s lips brush over the pointed tip of Spock’s ear, and he murmurs into it, “I want to have you in the water with me. But if you prefer, I can make love to you here, instead.”

Spock’s not sure which he prefers. Probably making love. His free hand lifts of its own accord to cup Jim’s face, automatically brushing over all his meld points. Jim nuzzles fondly into the touch, face so alight with mischief. He’s an alluring temptress that should never have gotten past Spock’s defenses.

But he did, and in the intimacy of their makeshift quarters, Spock is allowed to enjoy his bondmate’s company. Only because he knows it’s what Jim wants, he says, “We will swim first.” But they will make love after. And then, perhaps: “You would also benefit from my reading, if you give this article I spoke to you of on the shuttle ride a chance.”

Jim chuckles. “Alright.” Then he ducks to press another kiss to Spock’s cheek, promising, “You can read it to me when we’re done everything, and I’m wrapped up nice and cozy in my sleeping bag.”

“That would be... acceptable.”

Far more than that. But Spock’s already said too much. He lets his t’hy’la pull him out of their tent, ready for the moonlit water.


End file.
